Six's Sixth
by Sandstorm Inkwell
Summary: Veno VI Sixth Regiment. During a mission on Cailtan, the Sixth finds itself scattered and faced with extinction. In an effort to secure their survival, Sergeant Gav Fion breaks orders and begins to move to the spaceport in an effort to secure transit off-world. This act condemns not only himself, but his entire squad. However, even in the midst of cowardice, there is valor.
1. Escort

Chains clanked and clanged, the noise of which echoed up and down the corridor. The two occupants of corridor shuffled along, one hindered by the source of the clanks and clangs, the other with a bolt pistol to the first's back.

'Faster,' hissed the Commissar, shoving the prisoner and making him stumble. He caught himself, however, and continued walking. Smartly silent, he stared straight ahead. Lace-less boots plodded against the deck and calloused hands held up trousers that were a bit too loose for the thinned prisoner. Ribs showed through his skin, though it had not been as such not just a week before.

Rounding a corner, the prisoner snuck a glance at the Commissar. The trademark stormcoat was buttoned tight and the peaked cap sat almost proudly on his otherwise bald head. His chain-sword was held loosely in his right hand, an insurance policy should the pirsoner escape.

This caused a snort of amusement to escape the prisoner. A sword hilt to the head was his swift reward. A myriad of curses snaked through the prisoner's brain as he tried to block out the sudden pain. Many said curses were colorful remarks about the Commissar's mother.

Down this corridor, the prisoner could actually see other living beings working to keep the troop-ship running. Servitors scuttled along, Engineers moved from place to place, Naval armsmen in their purple armor walked patrols. All made way for the prisoner and his Commissar escort. Some made the aquilla as a ward to fend off whatever evil the prisoner may have partaken in.

Amused by this, the prisoner continued forward, always mindful of the weapon prodding into his back. He had no hopeful thoughts saying that he would be alive much longer. After the 'trial', he would be either shot on the spot or placed in front of a firing squad. Undoubtedly made up partly of some troops from his own regiment.

A couple more turns and they began to pass Guard personnel. They all wore dark blue uniforms-though some had shedded their jackets for the white undershirts-and a white beret. A pin on the front of each beret proudly displayed an eagle with wings swept back like would be right before they snatched their prey. Held in it's talons, however, was a standard issue las-rifle. Tied to the barrel of the las-rifle, a scroll swept back under the eagle. It read: 'For Holy Terra'.

Every Guard they passed glared at the prisoner. A glare of anger that could only be brought on by the betrayel of a dear friend. Some, like the ship's crew, made the sign of the aquilla as he passed. The prisoner, for his part, kept his head held high under the glares of his fellows.

It wasn't long before the Commissar was pushing the prisoner through a door and into a large room. Chairs, tables, and other furniture was assembled to resemble a civillian court-room. Sitting behind the defendant table was a larger man wearing a very dark blue simple dress uniform, his white beret shadowing one eye. Rank tabs of a Colonel sat on his lapel.

The prisoner was led to a seemingly random point before being forced to stand as the Commissar took a seat behind the table opposite of the Colonel's. Another table sat in front of both tables and the prisoner. Behind it was another stern Commissar, his visage all but shouting his displeasure at having to perform this court.

'State you're name, rank, and regiment,' growled the head Commissar.

'Trooper Jvarn Lunk, Veno VI Sixth Regiment.'

'Trooper Lunk, you have been summoned to this court under charges of the following: Murder, Looting, Rape, Desertion, and Treason. Do you have anything you wish to say for this Trooper Lunk?'

Lunk remained silent as he stared past the Commissar at the large aquilla on the back wall. Almost looking satisfied with his silence, the Commissar continued, 'Trooper. For the sake of this hearing, can you please recount the events leading up to your capture for the charges that I have stated.'

Lunk shifted from one foot to the other before replying, 'It was just another day onboard the hauler. Eveyone knew what was coming. Another crazy mission for the Six's Sixth...'


	2. Commissar! Commissar!

Pain; signaled the body. Copper; signaled the tongue. Excitement; signaled the heart. Duck; signaled the brain.

Dodging a punch meant for his face, Jvarn swept his legs around and knocked his opponent off their feet. A loud thud accompanied their fall. Reversing the momentum of the sweep, Jvarn brought his heel down on his opponent's gut. It was caught and suddenly Lunk found his world rotating as his opponent twisted him around.

When the world had stopped spinning, he found himself against the deck with his opponent above him, fist raised to finally finish the fight. The fist swung down and Lunk moved his head as far to the side as it'd go. This move caused the punch to glance him. Not powerful enough to knock him out but still strong enough for him to see stars. Knowing another would end him, Lunk brought up his legs and kicked with all his might. The extra weight ceased to press down on his body as his opponent was flung off.

The action also brought him back to his feet. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Lunk watched as his opponent picked themselves up. Raising his fists, Jvarn awaited the next attack. It never came.

'Commissar! Commissar!'

The reaction was immediate. The crowd that had formed around Jvarn and the other trooper dispersed with enough speed that they were gone within two beats of Jvarn's accelerated heart. Lunks himself lowered his hands and turned from his former opponent-a trooper named Hayt-and beat a hasty retreat to his own bunk. Reaching his bunk, Jvarn grabbed a towel and was able to wipe off some of the blood on him before the black coated Commissar entered the troop-bay.

'Group! Ten-HUT!' shouted one of the Guardsmen. Thuds echoed as heels came together, the Guardsmen stopping whatever they were doing to stand stock straight with eyes fixed on a location directly in front of them. Satisfied, the Commissar began to slowly march down the troop-bay, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoes making dull thuds against the deck. He went down the rows of troopers, looking them over. Jvarn noted with amusement that the Commissar's eyes seemed to linger longer on the female troopers.

When he reached Jvarn, he came to a halt and seemed to study the blood still seeping from Jvarn's mouth.

'What in the Emperor's name? Trooper, explain yourself!' he shouted, turning and getting right in front of Jvarn.

'Tripped, Commissar, sir!' Jvarn shouted back, some of his blood splashing onto the Commissar's face. If the disciplinary officer felt it, he gave no indication as to such.

'On what trooper?'

'My pants, Commissar, sir!' The look of surprise lasted only a second. If Jvarn had blinked, he would have missed it. While it was there though; no other memory the trooper had could match the hilarity of the look.

'Your pants, trooper?'

'Yes, Commissar, sir!'

'Do you need help dressing yourself trooper?' the Commissar questioned after a short pause and a couple confused blinks.

'Only if you're volunteering, Commissar, sir!' Jvarn shouted at the top of his lungs. Coughs erupted around the troop-bay as other troopers barely contained their laughter. Anger was quick to replace the confusion on the Commissar's face.

'Do you think you're funny trooper?'

'No, Commissar, sir!'

'Down! A hundred push-ups right now!' the Commissar yelled, drawing his bolt pistol while pointing at the deck with his free hand. Getting down, Jvarn let a smile grace his face when he was sure the tight-coated prick wouldn't see it. After three push-ups, Jvarn felt the impression of boots on his back and felt the extra three hundred pounds that accompanied those impressions. Easily, Jvarn continued with his punishment, disguising chuckles as distressed coughs.

'Venites! I have been chosen to inform you of your assignment! A planet by the name of Cailtan has requested assistance from the glorious Imperial war-machine! They are currently under attack by a repulsive Chaos army and face certain destruction without our interference! Imperial Command has seen fit to give you all the great honor of defending Cailtan! You are the Imperial Guard! You are the Veno VI Sixth Regiment! You are Drop-Troops! For Holy Terra! For the Emperor!'

'Puskai Veno! Puskai Imperiar!' cried the assembled Guardsmen, including Jvarn. The shouts were in the Sixth's native language and literally translated to: 'Thrive Veno! Thrive Emperor!'. Nodding, the Commissar stepped off of Jvarn and strode out of the troop-bay, leaving the Guardsmen where they stood. Once he was gone, Lunk got to his feet as laughter rolled over the assembled troopers. The ones close to Jvarn walked over and gave him pats on the back while muttering things resembling 'Good one' or 'Nice'.

Shrugging off the praises, Jvarn grabbed his dark blue uniform jacket and slid it onto his lithe frame. After buttoning it up, he grabbed his white beret off his cot and set it on his head with a sense of reverence. His eyes unconsciously glanced down to the end of the troop-bay where he saw fellow Venite troopers wearing black fatigues instead of the normal dark blue. They were the Sixth's elite, the 'go to' troops. Their specialty? Deep, stealth strikes against hostile forces. Where the Sixth might fail, they were expected to succeed. All of them knew their worth. All of them acted like complete arses.

Jvarn has never wanted anything more than to join them. To fight with them was the highest honor that could be bestowed upon a trooper of the Sixth. To be equipped with a Grav-Chute and tossed out the back of a dropship?

Who wouldn't want that privilege, Jvarn thought as he put on his black flak vest. His equipment webbing, filled with charge packs, lamp packs, rations, and his knife went on over his flak vest while a disassembled entrenching tool was positioned on his right thigh. A pad went over his right knee before he clipped a pauldron over his left shoulder. Slipping on gloves, Jvarn grabbed his las-rifle and a charge pack from his bag.

On the way out of the troop-bay, Jvarn bumped into someone. Looking, he saw Hayt in his full battledress, carrying his flamer as easily as Jvarn carried his las-rifle. The pack on his back gave off the smell of promethium but Jvarn's nose has long grown accustomed to it. With las-rifle slung-with stock folded-under his right arm, Jvarn was free to pound Hayt's offered fist.

'You ready for this Jvarn?' Hayt asked as the two entered the hallway and began to march to the hanger bay where their dropship waited.

'As long you point that flame-hurler downrange, I'm always ready,' Jvarn replied heartily, earning a laugh from Hayt as a response. The two were from the same squad, led by Sergeant Fion. They were also inseparable and prone to scenes such as had occurred earlier in the troop-bay. 'Training' they called it. 'Stupid' everyone else called it. On more than once occasion, Jvarn has been accredited with saving Hayt's life. Of course, the same could be said for Hayt, using his flamer to save Jvarn's hide-and cook it a little-during battle.

'Hey! Fok heads!'

The two troopers turned to see a female trooper jogging to them. She didn't have a las-rifle. Instead, she had a long-las in a protective case across her back. In replacement of her only close-quarters defense, she had a las-pistol holstered on her hip. She was quick to catch up to Jvarn and Hayt, bumping Hayt's offered fist before using her fist to punch Jvarn in his unarmored shoulder.

'Ow,' muttered Jvarn, rubbing his shoulder, 'Why?'

'Because you're a fok head is why. Some day the Commissar is going to have had enough with your games and just shoot you,' she explained with a scowl.

'Aw,' cooed Hayt. It was largely off putting due to the large flamer in his meaty hands, 'I think Kilm's starting to care for you Lunk.'

Kilm's eyes narrowed, 'Don't forget flame-boy; one shot to the back and boom,' she hissed, closing and opening one hand to signify the explosion.

Before Hayt or Lunk could reply, an aggressive, familiar voice charged down the hall, 'Why are you walking? Hustle troopers! This isn't a gakking sewing circle! Move! Move!'

'Speaking of fok heads,' Lunk whispered as he, Kilm, and Hayt broke into a jog with the rest of the regiment. A swift back-hand to the arm from Kilm reminded him of her earlier statement. 'Right,' he grumbled, 'obedient.'

Another back-hand. Lunk hissed as he could feel the bruise beginning to form. He found himself wishing to be planetside already, just to be away from the female sniper and her moods. Of course, he thought as he passed by the still yelling Commissar, first I have to get on the dropship.


	3. Irony of it All

The hanger was massive. Large enough that three whole hab-blocks could fit in it's space and still it wouldn't be full. A mix of dropships and gunships were perched on the deck with tech-priests and servitors clambering in, around, and over them like some form of parasite. Most of the crafts were already humming with life, their powerful engines washing onto the deck.

With las-gun in hand, Jvarn-along with Hayt and Kilm-jogged down the great expanse. Passing other dropships, they could see other Venites loading into them through open side doors. The bay was filling with the tide of dark blue uniforms that slowly trickled into dropships. Many prayed to the God-Emperor for protection. Spilling into their own dropship, the three troopers were met an empty dropship.

'Huh,' Hayt uttered simply as he looked back at the tide of Venites.

'The briefing must be taking longer than usual,' Kilm offered, sitting on the edge of a bench and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Her brown hair, which normally reached her shoulder blades, was in a tight braid that started at her neck and went up under her beret at the top of her head.

'Could be,' Jvarn intoned as he took a seat next to Kilm, swinging his las-rifle onto his lap as he did. Noticing that the charge pack he had plucked from his bag was still clenched in his left hand, Lunk slid it into the weapon and heard it purr to life, it's machine-spirit happily awakened.

More troopers filed in from Eighth and Ninth Squads. Jvarn, Kilm, and Hayt were part of Ninth Squad. Each squad had a total of eight troopers with one marksman, one flamer, one medic, one vox-man, the sergeant, and three riflemen. All of Sixth Regiment were Veno VI born. All of them original troopers. All of them proudly wearing white berets.

Other Regiments' officers frowned upon the Venite berets because they weren't 'standard headgear' or were 'too visible'. These complaints usually died down the moment a Venite dropship hit surface and disgorged their passengers in the midst of a conflict, usually turning the tide in favor of the Imperium.

Glancing around the bay of the dropship, Jvarn saw the other troopers settling in. Taking a quick count, he realized that the only ones missing were the two Sergeants. Sergeant Fion of Ninth Squad and Sergeant Buik of Eighth Squad. Both were capable leaders and complemented each other nicely as Fion thought tactically and Buik thought brutally.

After a couple minutes, the two sergeants finally bounded onto the craft. The hatches were slid into place and locked, sealing the dropship from the outside environment. With doors sealed, the sergeants stepped to the middle of the bay. Fion had a data-slate in hand.

'Troopers, gather around!' Buik called out. Everyone was quick in doing what he said. Buik had a famously short temper.

'Alright troopers,' Fion began, 'the world we're going to is called Cailtan. It orbits a lone star, designation Nine-Point-Three-blah, blah, blah. What you need to know is that it is an ice planet with islands of 'soil' upon which their settlements are built.'

'So it's like Six, only frozen?' Hayt asked, his head titled slightly to the side.

'Correct,' Fion answered with a smile, his brown eyes-the same color as every other Venite's-seeming to sparkle at the question, 'No one exists in the ice wastelands and the large distance between the islands is one of the reasons why we were called in. The other reason being we were the closest.'

'Fok. Here I was thinking we were special,' remarked a trooper from the Eighth, causing some chuckling to ripple across the bay. With some shuddering, they all felt the dropship raise up and begin to move out of the hanger.

'Orbital picts show an assault underway on one of the settlements. The fly-boys plan to set us down in the midst of it. Hostiles, however, are simple Chaos cultists led by some upstart. Should be a beach walk,' Fion finished, stowing his data-slate in his thigh pocket and seating on a crash bench, 'Take your seats folks.'

The troopers obeyed and sat down at their spots on the crash benches, pulling the harnesses down over them. The vox was quiet with only a few mutterings between squad leaders about landing tactics. Jvarn found himself adjusting his beret as he felt the dropship moving out into the black sea and begin it's path to the planet. Looking over at Kilm, Jvarn saw that she had put her long-las between her legs and was sleeping soundly in her crash seat. Hayt, on the other side of Kilm, was affectionately rubbing his flamer, the packs at his feet.

Someone, Jvarn couldn't tell who, began to play music over the vox. It was the cry of a flute, soft and solemn as it rang out familiar notes.

'In the darkest hour of night,' began the troopers of the Six's Sixth, their voice mingling together to form one sound, 'they pack their bags. They march to fight, under the golden flags. Born to sail, heading to fight in the black seas. Never fail, they will be as brave as any Astartes.'

The flute seemed to wail as it went into a solo of fast flying notes. Jvarn noted with barely a thought that a single tear was rolling down his face and the faces of every trooper around him. Even Buik, the hardest Venite Jvarn has met, had a tear hanging from his eye.

'Regiments of Veno Six, heading off with nothing but picts. In the service of the Emperor, you will make our existence happier. When you are called to die, remember your cry. Puskai Veno. Puskai Imperiar.'

The vox melted to silence after the final notes of the flutes played. That song had been composed by a famous Venite flute/vocal duo and was played on the Founding Fields before the regiments were filed onto troop-ships. The song had been recorded by a few soldiers in the Sixth and was played before each and every mission. A lucky charm, of sorts, for the troopers.

By now, the troopers were being shaken in their seats by the fury of atmospheric re-entry. Jvarn sat in silence as he offered a prayer to the Emperor for not only his protection but the protection of his comrades. Though they had performed their lucky charm, only the God-Emperor could fully offer protection to the troopers and only He knew when that charm might fail.

Finishing his prayer, Jvarn noticed the lack of shaking. Anticipating the upcoming actions, he took his rebreather out of his belt pouch and slid it on. The white device covered his nose and mouth and began to feed him oxygen-rich air.

'Re-entry successful. All systems green. Open side-doors,' reported their pilot, safely tucked away in the cockpit.

'Opening side-doors,' Fion replied while motioning to Jvarn. Nodding, Jvarn removed his harness and stood up. Grabbing the overhead bar, he moved to the door and yanked down up on the locking lever. With the door unlocked, he looked back into the bay to see that both squads already had on their rebreathers. Looking across the bay, he nodded to the soldier from Eighth who stood by the other door. With a yank, the two slid their doors open, allowing the cold air to rush into the bay. Jvarn immediately began shivering.

'Fok! It's cold!' griped Teik, one of Jvarn's comrades in Ninth Squad.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Hayt commented, chuckling as he got to his feet, flamer still in hand. Jvarn walked over and helped him get the pack settled on his back.

'It's cause you have that damned flame-hurler!' replied a trooper from Eighth, Gart was his name.

'What's wrong with that?' asked Vola, the Eighth's flamer. Though he tried to speak threateningly, the grin on his face informed everyone of his playful intentions.

'You think the Commissar is warm with all that hot-air he has?' came the voice of the pilot. Everyone laughed at that one. In the midst of laughing, Jvarn thanked the Emperor that they were on a private vox network for the drop. The laughter died when the pilot came back over the vox, worry in his voice.

'In the name of-Brace! Brace!'

Grabbing a handhold, Jvarn looked at the doors in vain of seeing what spooked the pilot. Not a second later, the craft shook with such violence that a trooper from Eighth was flung out of the open door. His screams were abruptly silenced by the wailing wind. Jvarn himself was slammed into the wall and found himself stuck there as outside forces acted on the craft.

'We're hit! We're hit!' screamed the pilot over the vox, 'Engine two is down, Engine one is overheating! We're going down! Six-Twelve is going down!'

As the pilot announced his demise over the vox, the spinning continued to increase, pushing Jvarn further and further into the wall. The wind howled in his ears and blood began to pool in his legs. His vision began to blur at the edges. With a scream that was prematurely cut off by the wind, another trooper was pulled from the craft's open doors.

A thud reached Jvarn's ears. An Eighth Squad trooper had just slammed into the bulkhead next to Lunk. The hit appeared to have knocked him out as he made no effort to grab onto anything. Reaching over, Lunk took a fistful of his jacket. An explosion sounded outside of the spinning craft.

'Engine one is gone! Rudders are non-responsive! Altitude: Twenty-seven thousand and dropping fast! Repeat, Six-Twelve is going down.'

Jvarn's vision had come to resemble a tunnel now with the dark walls closing in. He had to look directly at the trooper in his grasp to see him now as the world continued it's violent spinning. So it was this mission, Jvarn thought as the darkness closed in, it was this mission the charm failed. As the darkness finally filled his vision, Jvarn smirked at the irony of it all. A world opposite of their home would become their grave.


	4. Dreams and Regulations

'Hey, time to wake up.'

Cracking open his eyes, Jvarn was met with blinding sunlight. Groaning, he clenched them shut and used a hand to shield them further, disturbing his covers as he did. After a couple seconds, he opened his eyes again, the light hurting less this time. Pushing off his covers, Jvarn took in a deep breath of the salty air before climbing from his bed.

Looking around with still tired eyes, Jvarn saw the two other beds that made up the small room, one fit for two people. The last bed was underneath his, which was actually about halfway up the wall. He also saw his sister standing impatiently in the middle of the room, wearing pants and shoes but leaving her torso exposed.

'By the God-Emperor sister, cover your breasts,' Jvarn stated dryly as he scratched his buttocks through the cloth of his undergarments. As he did so, he opened the second drawer of the lone dresser and pulled out a simple outfit. After making sure all clothing was actually his, he shuffled to the only way out of the room.

'Just hurry up and get ready brother, we're already late as it is,' she replied. While Jvarn couldn't see it, he could hear the rolling of her eyes. Letting out a burp, and chuckling at it, Lunk pushed through the curtain and entered the neighboring room. Looking at the two couches and table, Jvarn moved on to the door set into the wall to his right. Opening the door, he stepped out into a hall lined with similar doors. A bustle of activity blocked Jvarn's immediate entrance into the halls.

Heaving a sigh, Lunk stepped into the surge and allowed himself to be whisked away by the press of the crowd. After a couple seconds of being shoved and jostled, insulted and apologized to, Lunk stepped through an open door that was wide enough to two people to pass through with only a soft shoulder bump.

This new room was filled with steam and the sound of running water. Showerheads lined the right wall and half of the back wall. Columns that rose a good six feet from the ground also sported showerheads. The rest of the back wall was taken up entirely by small lockers. The left wall was lined with sinks and mirrors.

As is usual in the mornings, most of the showerheads and sinks were in use and chaos sounded from the lockers. Approaching the lockers, Jvarn pushed his way into the mass of wet and dry, clothed and naked bodies to reach his family's locker. When he did so, a bruise beginning to form from a unlucky hit to the side by an elbow, he opened it and removed the soap and shampoo before shoving in his clothes. Closing it, Jvarn forced his way back out of the crowd.

Walking to a showerhead, which just happened to be situated next to a gorgeous woman, Lunk stripped off his undergarment and hung it over the showerhead. Sneaking a glace at the woman, Jvarn grabbed the showerhead's handle and turned it.

_**CRACK!**-hiss_

Jvarn arched an eyebrow as nothing came out of the showerhead besides the strange noise. He would be lying if he said that it had not startled him a little. He realized he had turned the handle back to off in his surprise.

_**CRACK!**-hiss_

Jvarn let go of the handle now. He hadn't even turned it that time. That was when he felt the heat of someone next to him, someone really close. Turning, he was met with soft green eyes looking into his brown eyes. The eyes, exotic to a Venite, were paired with a smile that could make the most devoted of Chaos cultists question their hate. The nakedness of her angelic body did not elude the Venite teen. A hand as soft as velvet rested upon his shoulder as she opened her mouth to speak.

_**CRACK!**-hiss_

'What?' Jvarn asked, his brows knotting in confusion. The woman merely giggled,

'I said that it is time for you to wake up.'

* * *

Jvarn opened his eyes to hell. Las-fire filled the air, creating a show of light that would have been marvelous to look at had the Venite trooper not known of their deadly nature. With blurry eyes, he followed the beams of death to their origin, a wreck that had dug a trench in the ice. Thick ice, Jvarn though with a 'hmph'. Feeling something biting into his face, Jvarn reached up to have his hand run into the white rebreather. Tearing it off, he flung it aside before looking around from his spot on the ground.

To his left was the wreck with it's handful of shooters. To his right were figures advancing over the ice, wearing white robes stained with blood. One of the robed figures carried a banner, on it was an eight-pointed star.

'Fok,' Jvarn cursed as he realized that he was looking at the enemy cultists he was supposed to fight. Grabbing onto his las-rifle, miraculously still hanging onto him by the strap, Lunk rolled to his belly, hissing as a stab of pain shot up his right leg. Bringing his las-rifle to bear, he looked down the iron sights at the robed figures. Lining one up, Lunk fired, adding his weapon to the deadly symphony that rang in his ears. His shot flew true as he watched the cultist spin in a mist of his own blood before falling to the ice.

His kill didn't go unnoticed as the ice around him began to fizzle and pop as las-rounds smacked into it. Realizing it was time to take his leave, Jvarn switched his las-rifle to auto and depressed the trigger. After a sustained burst, he jumped to his feet and began to backpedal to the wreck, his gun blasting as he did. He was suddenly spun to the left, the corresponding shoulder throbbing. Instead of fighting against the momentum to bring his gun to bear once more, Jvarn spun to face the wreck and began to sprint to it.

One of the shooters at the wreck was waving him on, white beret visible on their head. Using every ounce of energy he had, Jvarn dug his boots into the thick ice as he tried to get to the wreck. Las-rounds flew by, ice bubbled and popped, fires crackled, and soldiers shouted incoherently.

Reaching the wreck, Lunk jumped over the debris. Hitting the ice, he found himself beginning to slide across it. A hand grabbed his leg, causing him to fall forward but bringing him to a stop. Looking, Jvarn saw that the trooper who had been waving him on was holding onto his leg while also holding onto the debris. Scrambling across the ice, Jvarn got against the debris, nodding to the trooper, who he now recognized to be Hiln from his own squad.

'Thanks.'

'No worries,' Hiln replied as he picked up his rifle and fired at the cultists.

'Any idea what brought us down?' Jvarn asked as he looked over the debris at the cultists. There were a lot of them, numerous clumps of white against the light blue of the ice.

'Look up.'

Doing as he said, Jvarn was met with black clouds that lit up periodically from bolts of lightning arcing in the sky. Against the dreary backdrop, Lunk spotted an Imperial ship flying overhead. A white flash and lightning struck at the ship with the force of a whip, splitting the vessel in half.

'By the Emperor,' Jvarn muttered as he watched the two pieces tumble to the ground below. Tearing his gaze from the doomed craft, Lunk raised his las-rifle and took aim at the cultists. With the familiar _**CRACK!**__-hiss_ of las-fire, Lunk opened up at the cultists. Cursing again, Lunk flipped his rifle off of auto before firing again.

After three shots, Lunk was met with an empty click. Hurriedly, Jvarn ejected the spent charge pack before fishing another one out of his webbing. As he did so, he noticed two things. First, incoming las-fire had picked up drastically. Second, those clumps of white were getting awfully close, awfully fast.

'Fix bayonets!' someone shouted from their left. Hiln nodded to himself as he drew his knife.

'Fix bayonets!' he shouted down the line as he secured his knife to the bayonet lug on his rifle. Lunk hurriedly secured his own bayonet, cursing the entire time.

'Beach walk my arse,' Jvarn muttered. Hiln chuckled beside him as the two troopers aimed their rifles back at the charging cultists and began to fire again. For every cultist they killed, however, it looked as if three more took it's place. As the cultists drew closer, Jvarn heard a _whoosh_ and watched as two spears of flame began raking over the warp-tainted beings. Even the all-purifying flames of prometheum did little to stem the tide.

Standing Jvarn thrust his rifle forward, piercing the chest of a cultist with his blade. Firing, Jvarn blasted the offending thing from his blade. Switching back to full auto, Lunk swept his rifle from side to side, all of his rounds hitting something in the tight pack of white robes that swarmed the wreck. With a slashing movement, he cut open the chest of a cultist before following up with a smash to their face with the stock.

Spinning with the momentum, Jvarn did a three-sixty before stabbing his blade forward and into the gut of a cultist. That was when he felt the bite of a blade on his skin. Looking down, he saw the cut it had left on his leg. Shooting the cultist off his bayonet, Lunk swept his rifle side to side again, trigger depressed. During the second sweep, however, he was met with an empty click.

'Fok!' Jvarn yelled as he deflected a blade upward with his rifle. Pain erupted in his arm as a hostile las-round found it's mark. Screaming, Lunk continued fighting, his makeshift spear stabbing, bashing, or blocking the attacking cultists. Cuts continued to appear on his body, ripping apart his uniform.

Then, it was over. As a cultist slid from Jvarn's blade, he looked to see nothing but the quick freezing corpses of the many cultists that had charged them. There was no sign of another wave, just the once light blue ice, now painted red with frozen blood.

Breathing heavily, his breath visible in the cold air, Jvarn looked left and right to see his fellow troopers breathing just as heavily. After a couple seconds, a trio of them stepped from the debris and began to comb the corpses. A _**CRACK!**__-hiss _signified their discovery, and execution, of a wounded cultist. Two more troopers stepped out after the trio and began to grab every charge pack they could find. Lunk didn't find himself objecting the idea of using enemy ammo. God-Emperor knew they'd need it.

'Hey, Jvarn.'

Lunk looked over to see Hiln motioning to a piece of wreckage a couple feet back from them.

'Sit down and let me look at your wounds,' he said as he moved to the wreckage. As if the words made it happen, Jvarn felt a sudden sting of pain from his las-round wound. Nodding dumbly, Jvarn moved to the wreckage and sat down against it, setting his rifle aside. As Hiln grabbed Lunk's combat aid pouch from his belt, Jvarn noticed the numerous cuts decorating Hiln's own body. He also noticed that a good amount of the whites of both of his eyes had turned red with blood from popped vessels. Probably from the impact, Jvarn decided.

'I'm surprised you're still alive man,' Hiln stated as he looked at Lunk's face before going back to work on the wounds.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah, when I saw you get flung from the ship, I thought you were a goner for sure.'

'Well,' Lunk winced as Hiln tightened a bandage, 'the Emperor protects.'

'That He does,' Hiln muttered, his eyes darting to a view behind Jvarn. Turning his hand, Jvarn saw what Hiln looked at. A dead Guardsman, their body twisted to unnatural angles, frozen blood surrounding them. As if symbolic of his current occupation, his rifle had lodged itself in a crack in the ice, standing up out of the frozen water. Jvarn couldn't help but wonder how many more memorials would dot this world by the time they were done.

* * *

Kilm, kneeling, swept her long-las side to side. An oasis of silence and calm compared to the frantic feeling from below as soldiers moved to treat wounded, get orders, and make the wreck a more defensible position. The Regimental Regulations were quite clear: 'Should your dropship crash in hostile territory, you are to secure the crash site, activate either the ship's or your own distress beacon, and await reinforcements.'

Kilm snorted in amusement. Even the dumbest of Guardsman knew that activating a distress beacon in hostile territory would bring the enemy to you like sharks to the smell of blood. However, the most loyal would still do so. They would probably be reciting litanies as they did so, Kilm thought with a smirk.

'Oi! Kilm!'

'What Hayt?' Kilm answered, her eye never leaving her scope.

'I found Jvarn!'

This got Kilm to take her eye from her scope. She looked down the slope of metal she had climbed. At the bottom stood the big man himself, flamer tied down to the top of the prometheum pack, leaving both hands free. One such hand was pointing in the direction of the main cluster of troopers.

Spinning her head, Kilm caught the eye of the Eighth's sharpshooter. The man gave the smallest of nods, the rest of his body staying still as he scanned the ice wastes around them. The horizon was now decorated with numerous smoke pillars that marked possible Guardsmen that, like her group, were now securing their perspective wreck.

Without a warning, Kilm tossed his long-las at the brute of a man below her before sliding down the slope. Once at the bottom, she took her rifle back from the man with a 'Thanks' before following him to where he had spotted Jvarn. Passing by troopers, all of which moved with a purpose to secure the site, Kilm had her head on a swivel for Jvarn. She finally spotted him sitting against a bulkhead plate, which was violently sheered from the craft, while another trooper tended to his wounds.

'Jvarn!' she cried rushing to him and dropping to her knees to slide to a stop next to him. When she did stop, she gently set down her rifle before giving Lunk a brief hug as her eyes scanned over his wounds. Bayonet cuts, a las-wound, and a gash on his leg. The las-wound and gash were both treated and wrapped in white bandages.

'Hey Kilm,' Jvarn greeted with a smile before nodding to the giant behind her, 'Hayt.'

'Did they dance well?'

Jvarn chuckled, 'Fokking cultists,' he glanced up, 'and now we got witches too.'

'Yeah,' Hayt said solemnly, looking at the black clouds overhead.

'Should'a seen this bastard,' piped in Hiln, motioning to Lunk, 'woke up and looked around like he was fresh born. Finally rolled to his stomach and fired, took down one. Then he gets up and begins to fall back when a las-round hit his fokking pauldron! Spins 'em right round but he just goes with it and starts sprinting.'

'Stretching your luck Lunk?' Kilm asked.

'As far is it'd go,' Lunk replied, earning a playful punch from the marksman.

'Jvarn, Kilm, and Hiln?' asked a trooper as he approached the group, his lower face still covered by the white rebreather they all wore during the first part of the drop.

'That's us,' Kilm said, nodding her head to the other two troopers mentioned.

'Sarge said that you need to grab your kit, he wants you to 'con some of the other crashes.'

Kilm looked at the trooper as if he had grown another head. The Sarge wanted them to recon the smoke pillars? Three troops against whatever madness lay in the ice wastes?

'A team from Eighth will be doing the same,' the trooper added, as if that would make the female's look disappear.

'No point in arguing about it Kilm,' Jvarn stated as he pushed himself to his feet, shrugging off Hiln as he did so.

'But the regs-'

'The regs also say we should light a distress beacon but we both know we won't do that,' Jvarn countered. Sighing, Kilm grabbed her precious long-las and got to her feet. Nodding to her, Jvarn looked at the trooper, 'However, I would like to have a clarification from the Sergeant himself. Would you mind pointing me to him?'

The trooper wordlessly pointed off in a seemingly random direction.

'Thank you,' Jvarn said with a nod as he slung his las-rifle across his back before walking in the direction pointed, motioning for the three other troopers to follow him.

'Might as well get this over with,' he said with a sigh.


End file.
